Page 24 of Over the Line

It helped that this situation had been a relatively easy one. It was a hell of a lot easier than those times when someone was getting demoted. Or when they were being healthy-scratched. Or when they were this close to being sent down or put on waivers. I did not relish those conversations at all.

Came with the territory, though, and my teammates must’ve been pleased with how I’d handled it, since they’d voted me their captain for the tenth year in a row. No pressure, or anything.

The shower washed away the stink of hockey while the heat relaxed some tense muscles in my neck and back. I’d have to ice my shoulder when I got home; my physical therapists and trainers had warned me it was going to be a bear long after I was reactivated, and they hadn’t been joking. A separated shoulder was bullshit.

Eh. Could’ve been worse. An old teammate from major juniors who now played in Los Angeles was on long-term injured reserve for a torn MCL. My former linemate who’d been traded to Toronto two seasons ago broke his arm last week.

Me? I just had a cranky-ass shoulder that wasn’t going to forgive me any time soon for slamming into the boards a little too hard at just the wrong angle. And having watched the replay, I was just grateful that Boston’s beast of a defenseman had been able to react the way he had. He’d ended up falling at a weird angle and hit the ice pretty hard, but the alternative had been crashing into me from behind. I’d happily take the perpetually sore shoulder over what could’ve happened to my spine or head.

I shivered, goose bumps prickling up under the hot water as I rolled my stiff shoulders. I’d been lucky—I’d played this sport most of my life, and though I had a laundry list of injuries and some near constant pain as a result, I’d never had anything serious. Like, nothing life-altering or career-threatening. A mild concussion here and there. The separated shoulder. Two core muscle surgeries. The kinds of fractures that “there isn’t much we can do about except let it heal”—four different ribs over the course of my career, plus my cheekbone. 0/10, do not recommend.

All things considered, I couldn’t complain too much.

I finished my shower, threw on a hoodie and a pair of team sweats, and hauled my sore carcass into the lounge to find some food. After I’d loaded a plate, I plunked it down on a table beside Temo’s and dropped into a chair.

“Hey, Captain.” He elbowed me. “How’s the shoulder?”

“Eh. Still attached.”

He huffed a laugh as he cut off a piece of chicken. “Sometimes that’s more of a curse than a blessing, am I right?”

I grunted as I cut into my own food. He was right, and he knew of what he spoke—in his ten-year pro career, he’d dislocated one shoulder and broken the other. When I’d teased him last season that he was one separated shoulder away from one hell of a hat trick, he’d threatened to separate my shoulder.

Yeah. That joke had aged well.

I had just taken my first bite of halibut when Chris appeared beside me. “Hey, mind if we join you guys?”

When I looked up, I damn near choked on my food. Garrett was with him. Of course he was. Where else would he be?

Fortunately, unlike me, Temo hadn’t been struck stupid, and he gestured at the empty seats. “Of course! Sit down!” As they took their seats, he asked, “You liking it here in the Burgh?”

Garrett nodded as he arranged his utensils. “I just moved a week ago, but so far, so good.”

I blinked. He’d what now?

Somehow, when I spoke, I sounded casual. “Wait, you moved here?”

Another nod, this one accompanied by a smile that made the damn world tilt beneath me. “Yep. In fact I move into my apartment tomorrow.”

“Oh. Wow. That—that sounds like a big change.” I went for my drink because my mouth had suddenly gone dry. “Where are you moving from again? Chicago, wasn’t it?”

“Yep. Chicago.” Garrett picked up his fork. “It’s quite a switch, but I think I’ll manage.” He glanced at his son and smiled. Chris smiled, too; he seemed genuinely thrilled to have his dad coming to town.

Neither of them had any reason to think this might have my head spinning or my brain shorting out. Because there was no reason for any of that to be happening. I was just an idiot who apparently needed to reactivate his hookup profiles—again—and get a few things out of his system. Jesus Christ.

We all fell into casual conversation while we ate, mostly talking about places in Pittsburgh Garrett needed to check out.

“There’s a place in the Strip District,” Temo said. “I forget the name but it’s this shop that sells every spice known to man.” He gestured with his water bottle. “You do any kind of cooking, you gotta check it out.”

Garrett was definitely intrigued. “Oh yeah? I’ve been meaning to do some more cooking. But you don’t remember the name?”

“Hang on, hang on…” Temo took out his phone. “My wife will remember. And she’ll be able to spell it.”

While we waited for Ximena to respond with the name of the spice shop, Chris said, “There’s also a Brazilian steakhouse down there. It’s always crowded as hell, so you need a reservation, but it’s really good.” He paused. “Jasmine can’t stand it right now because of all the food smells, but once she’s feeling better, we should all go.”

“That place is great,” I said. “That hot cheese with honey… oh my God.”

Temo and Chris both groaned.